Wordless

by Sabrina Stark

  I didn't believe it. And from the look in Becka's eyes, neither did she. I said, "Is that so?"

  "Definitely." She paused. "Okay, maybe." Again, she hesitated. "But just tell me one thing. Do you think I'll ever see it again?"

  "What, your book?"

  "Yeah."

  Again, I couldn’t help but smile. "Maybe."

  Chapter 36

  Becka

  It was more than a maybe.

  I found the book fifteen minutes after checking into the new hotel. The book was tucked into the outside pocket of my carry-on, exactly where Darbie had pulled out her copy in Atlanta.

  I yanked out the book and stared at it for a long moment, not daring to look inside. Not yet. Instead, I focused on the book's exterior, noting the classic image on the cover and the spine creased with repeated use.

  I studied the book long and hard before coming to an unsettling conclusion. On the outside, it looked exactly like the one Darbie had been waving in my face. Or more accurately, Darbie's book had looked exactly like mine.

  This couldn't be an accident.

  Finally I took a deep breath, opened the book, and peered inside. Right there on the title page was the inscription from Jack, written in bold blue ink. Until now, I hadn't had the chance to read it for myself, even if I had gotten hints from listening to Darbie's commentary at the book-signing.

  Now in the quiet hotel room, I read it out loud. "To Becka – a trouble-maker of the highest order."

  I smiled. Highest order, huh? That phrase was used frequently in Jack's books, usually by some cleric or nobleman looking to make a point. With a little laugh, I pulled the book closer and studied Jack's signature, all bold and wonderful on the bottom of the page.

  Suddenly I was feeling a little misty. Somehow, Jack had not only retrieved my book, he'd given Darbie a taste of her own medicine – all without causing a giant spectacle like I had.

  The whole thing was kind of scary – but absolutely glorious in its own way.

  Clutching the book more tightly now, I glanced toward the door of my hotel room. Should I track him down and thank him?

  The answer came in an instant. No.

  In the hotel's lobby, he'd made it perfectly clear that I wouldn't be seeing him again until noon tomorrow, when we'd be leaving for the actual book-signing.

  With a sigh, I glanced at the clock on the night stand. The time was 1:05 in the afternoon, which meant that I had the whole day to do nothing at all.

  I spent it obsessing over Jack, wondering what he was doing, and how he'd managed to pull of such a crazy switch.

  Again, I asked myself, who was this guy, anyway?

  And what made him tick?

  In search of clues, I pulled out my little notebook computer, the one my sister had gotten me for my last birthday. I scoured the internet in hopes of discovering something that I didn't already know.

  Instead, I found the same kind of stories I always found – articles about his string of best-sellers, his impressive net worth, and his reclusive nature.

  Reclusive or not, there were at least some articles linking him to various love interests – a software developer in California, a violinist in New York, and of course, Imogen from who-knows-where.

  During my research, I also discovered that Imogen had an interesting habit of dropping his name on social media whenever she could, even now when they were apparently broken up – not that she was sharing that little factoid.

  During the past week, she'd even posted a series of photos of herself at Flynn's place, including several taken out on his back patio. She'd been showing off the same undergarments that she'd been wearing when I'd first spotted her in Flynn's front doorway.

  In person, the undergarments had hidden nearly nothing. But in the patio photos, she was perfectly posed to hide her juiciest bits behind potted plants, strategically placed flowers, or even her own hair.

  I had to admit, she'd done a masterful job of making the photos sexy without being technically obscene.

  Still, looking at her spectacular body and beautiful face, I couldn’t help but feel rather ordinary in comparison, especially when I came across several photos of her and Jack together at some movie premiere in L.A.

  They made a stunning couple, even if Jack wasn't smiling.

  This got me thinking, and I retraced my Web pages, looking at picture after picture.

  Funny, he wasn't smiling in any of them.

  And yet, he did smile with me. Well, sometimes that is.

  Holed up in my hotel room, I spent an obscenely long time jumping from article to article, until I came across the strangest thing. Way down on some obscure Web forum, an unknown guy was insisting that during the Atlanta convention, he'd sold half a jester costume to – yup, you guessed it – Jack Ward.

  I rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of it all, until a sudden realization made me gasp out loud.

  The shirt – the one he'd given me to replace my ripped blouse. It had been absolutely hideous – some twisted checker-board thing with purple patches and a funny collar.

  The Shirt of Shame.

  It was something I'd never forget, especially because I'd endured quite a bit of commentary while wearing it.

  At the time, I'd figured it was some sort of joke, or more likely a punishment for all the trouble I'd caused with Darbie and her friend.

  Now, I wasn't so sure.

  Tomorrow, I decided, I'd simply ask him.

  Oh sure, he might not answer, but it was worth a try, right?

  Chapter 37

  Becka

  I looked to Jack and said, "I saw the strangest news item yesterday."

  We were in the rental car, driving to the book-signing. Jack was behind the wheel, navigating the quiet country road while I drove myself crazy in the passenger's seat.

  Crazy with curiosity, that is.

  In fact, I was stewing in it.

  With his gaze trained on the road, Jack replied, "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah," I said, and then waited. When he said nothing more, I asked, "Don't you want to know what?"

  "Probably not." He gave me a sideways glance. "But you're gonna tell me regardless."

  I tried for a scoff. "You don't know that."

  The corners of his mouth lifted. "Yeah I do."

  With a sound of frustration, I turned once again to face the front. Fine. If he didn't want to know, I wasn't going to tell him. In fact, I wasn't going to say anything at all, not unless he spoke first.

  Already, I'd thanked him for the book, so really there was nothing I had to say, assuming the rest of the drive would remain wordless.

  My silence lasted for less than a mile before I heard myself ask, "So, were the hotels in Redville booked or something?"

  "No."

  I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. I didn't get it. The book-signing – scheduled at a local book store in a neighboring town – was an hour away from our hotel.

  I asked, "So, why are we staying so far away?"

  "What, you don't like the drive?"

  Actually, the drive was lovely. The road was smooth, and the traffic was light. Around us, the country was green with rolling hills. Plus, I was sitting with Jack Ward, the most interesting person I'd ever met.

  In the big scheme of things, I had nothing to complain about. "That's not it," I said. "I'm just curious, that's all."

  "You? No kidding?"

  He looked so darned sure of himself – and so insanely sexy – that I wanted to toss something at him. Like my panties. But that would be entirely unprofessional, so I contented myself with saying, "I know you're teasing me."

  "Good."

  "Why is that good?"

  "It saves me the trouble of explaining."

  "Explaining what?" I said. "That you're giving me a hard time? I can figure that out for myself."

  "Obviously."

  "And you never answered the question. Why aren't you staying in Redville? You know, where the signing is?"

  "You mean wh
y aren't we staying in Redville?"

  "Yeah. Fine. Whatever. I'm just wondering. Are you hiding from your fans or something?"

  "Something like that."

  Great. Another non-answer.

  Okay, yes, I had vowed to stop pestering him with questions. But the way I saw it, this could be classified under "making conversation" – like asking about the weather or someone's favorite sports team.

  Looking to make a point, I said, "I hear the weather's nice in Redville."

  His gaze shifted briefly in my direction, but he said nothing in response.

  "See?" I said. "I'm just making conversation. You know, for the road."

  At this, he looked almost ready to smile. "What happened to you being comfortable with silence?"

  For some stupid reason, I wanted to laugh. "Is that a hint?"

  He gave me another glance before saying, "No."

  This wasn't the answer I'd been expecting, and for a moment, I almost didn't know what to say.

  In the end, it was Jack who broke the silence. "All right. Tell me what you saw."

  "Where?"

  "The news item," he said.

  "Oh. That." Funny, I'd been thinking about it nearly nonstop since yesterday. And yet, sitting here with Jack, it was like my brain had suddenly stopped working.

  Still, I rallied to the cause. "See, the thing is, I read on some forum that you purchased half a jester costume in Atlanta."

  "On a forum?" he said. "That's not news. It's gossip."

  "But that's irrelevant," I said. "Did you, or did you not, buy half a costume?"

  He appeared to give it some thought. Finally, he replied, "No."

  I studied his profile. He was lying. I was almost certain of it. But did I really want to call him on it?

  Yes. I did.

  But how?

  I was still trying to come up with a tactful way of telling him that he was full of crap when he said, "I bought the whole thing."

  I did a double-take. "What?"

  "The costume," he said. "I only took half, but I bought it all. Seemed kind of rude to cheat the guy."

  "What?" I repeated like a total idiot.

  "Yeah," he said. "I took the shirt, but left the pants."

  Forget the pants. I sat back in the seat. "I knew it!"

  "Knew what?"

  "When you gave me that shirt to wear, I knew that thing wasn't normal."

  In the driver's seat, Jack looked entirely unrepentant. "Got that right."

  I made a sound of frustration. "Do you realize, I wore that thing for hours? Do you know how many people teased me about it?"

  "An exact number?" he said. "No."

  "Forget the number," I said. "I'm just saying, there were a lot."

  "Not surprising," he said. "The thing was ugly as hell." He paused. "Nice colors, though."

  As I stared at his profile, I had the distinct impression that he was teasing me yet again. "I don't get it," I said. "Why on Earth would you do that?"

  Before he could even to think to answer, I held up a hand. "And don't say it was because I needed a shirt. I know I needed a shirt. I'm just saying, why didn't you simply go to the hotel room and get one of mine like I suggested?"

  "Because I didn't have the time."

  "You did, too," I said. "You were gone like forty minutes."

  "So?"

  "So our room was only ten minutes away."

  At this, he turned his head a gave me a long, inscrutable look.

  A smart person would've reminded him to watch the road. But I wasn't feeling smart. And, at something in his eyes, a surge of heat crept up my face and then dipped lower. Way lower. And I didn't mean to my toes.

  By the time Jack looked away, I was nearly breathless. "What was that look for?"

  "It wasn't our room," he said. "It was yours."

  I almost cringed. Had I seriously said it again?

  Into my silence, he added, "You had your own room."

  As if I needed the reminder. "Right. I mean, I know."

  "And I had mine."

  "Yeah, I remember. On the seventeenth floor."

  "Right."

  By now, I was so flustered, I didn't even try to stop myself from asking, "And, why were you staying on that floor, anyway?"

  "Why not?"

  "Well…" I wasn't quite sure how to put this. "Normally people with your, um, financial means, stay higher. Are you afraid of heights or something?"

  He gave a low scoff. "You realize, seventeen will kill you the same as seventy."

  "Exactly," I said. "So why weren't you staying on a higher floor?"

  At this, he turned and gave me another look, this one more serious than the last. "That's a funny question."

  "It is not," I said. "It's a perfectly reasonable question."

  Returning his attention to the road, he said, "Maybe I like options."

  "What kind of options?"

  "Like using the stairs."

  From the passenger's seat, I gave him a good, long look. What was he saying? That he actually preferred taking the stairs? As opposed to an elevator?

  If so, why? For privacy? Or as some sort of workout regimen?

  From the looks of him, seventeen floors would be nothing. Cripes, seventy might be nothing for someone in that great of shape.

  I asked, "You mean for the exercise?" It seemed unlikely. The Atlanta hotel had boasted a world-class workout facility. Unless – maybe that's where the privacy came in?

  He replied, "You could say that."

  It felt like yet another non-answer, but I didn’t want to push the issue, not when I was dying to ask something more pressing. "Back to the shirt," I said, "I still don't understand. Why didn't you have time to go to the hotel room?" I cleared my throat. "Meaning my hotel room, not yours."

  And certainly not ours, as interesting as that sounded.

  He said, "I was busy."

  "Doing what?"

  "Trust me, you don't want to know."

  Probably that was the worst thing he could've said. Because now, I really wanted to know, even more so than before.

  I said, "I do, too."

  Jack shook his head. "You just think you do."

  I wasn't buying it. "You realize that if you don't tell me, I'll just think it's something way worse than whatever it is."

  "I doubt it."

  "So what does that mean?" I asked. "That it was really bad?"

  "All right, if you really wanna know," he said, "ask me after the signing."

  "Why after the signing?"

  "Because we're almost there."

  This wasn't quite true. We were still fifteen minutes away at least. But hey, I'd waited this long, right? What was a few more hours in the big scheme of things?

  I just hoped the wait would be worth it.

  Chapter 38

  Becka

  In Redville, the book store was ridiculously easy to find. And why? It was because there was a huge line of people circled around the block.

  From the passenger's seat, I spotted them from several blocks away, which made it even more surprising when Jack drove past the book store and kept going.

  "Wait," I said, turning in my seat. "Aren't you going to stop?"

  "Not here," he said. "We'll park out back."

  I didn't see how that was possible, considering that the line went literally around the whole block. But soon, I saw what he meant.

  He took a left and eventually drove into a parking garage three blocks over. Technically, yes, it was behind the book store, but it wasn't so close that he'd be mobbed the moment he left the vehicle.

  He pulled into the garage and claimed a spot on the lower level, parking between a long white van and a big red pickup. I watched as he backed into the spot rather than pulling in front-first.

  When he finished, I looked to him and said, "Lemme guess. You're hiding out and planning for a quick getaway. Is that it?"

  In the driver's seat, he cut the engine and turned to look at me, almost as if the ques
tion was actually interesting, which of course it wasn't. After a long moment, he replied in a carefully neutral tone, "Something like that."

  Confused by his reaction, I asked, "Is something wrong?"

  "No." He glanced at the dashboard clock. "You ready?"

  I nodded. "Oh yeah. Definitely."

  But as it turned out, I was entirely unprepared for the commotion his appearance caused. Back in Atlanta, the whole convention center had been crowded with eager fans, but that was somehow different.

  There, with thousands of attendees and a surprising number of celebrities, the mayhem had seemed almost normal. But here, on a regular everyday street, the excitement Jack generated was entirely surreal.

  In spite of his efforts to keep a low profile, he barely made it into the store's back entrance without getting completely mobbed.

  Still, I had to give him credit. He was a good sport – better than I might've expected, considering how private he was in general.

  The signing was scheduled to last for three hours. But five hours later, there was still a line. Plus, two local news channels had turned up, desperate for interviews.

  According to the publisher's instructions, part of my job was to act as a liaison between Jack and the people wanting his attention. This included all of the reporters who were eager for some of Jack's time.

  All this to say, between the fans, the media, and even the owner of the book store, I was kept busy and then some – but not so busy that I forgot Jack's promise.

  After the signing, I would finally be getting some answers.

  But the funny thing was, Jack was right.

  In the end, I probably was better off not knowing.

  Chapter 39

  Becka

  By the time we pulled out of the parking garage, I was a hungry, exhausted mess.

  I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and already it was past eight o'clock. Still, if given the choice between food or information, I knew exactly what I'd pick.

  Information. I was starving for it.

  As Jack turned onto the city street that would take us out of town, I said, "Time's up. You promised to tell me, remember?"

  He kept his gaze on the road. "I remember."

  "Well?" I said. "That's your cue, you know."